Jean Plaidy - For a Queens Love: The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II Страница 12

“We have been very happy for three years,” she reminded him. “We shall be happy for many more.”

“No matter what happens,” he agreed, “I shall always love you.”

He meant that if ever he had to make a marriage for state reasons she must not think he had ceased to love her even if it should be necessary for them to give up their life together. He would remember her always as the rock to which he had clung when his grief on the death of Maria Manoela had threatened to submerge him; she was the woman, a little older than himself, to whom he could in their privacy be something of the man he might have been if he had been allowed to grow naturally, if he had not been bound by rigid, iron casings which had forced him to grow in a certain mold.

“I am glad the child is a boy,” she said. “You will see his brother before you go?”

“I will,” said Philip. “And I should go now, my dearest—though I have no wish to do so—for I see that you are tired and should be resting. I but came to assure myself that you had come safely through. Now … to rest.”

He smoothed the coverlet with the tenderness of a mother; he was like a devoted yet restrained husband, Isabel thought. He had been thus, even in the early days of their relationship. He had amused her then with his solemnity, and the more solemn he became, the more tender she felt toward him, for oddly enough, in her opinion, it made him seem younger than others of his age.

He insisted that she close her eyes before he went out of the room. He stood by the door watching her. The experience of being alone in a room without attendants never failed to stimulate him; and in this room he had known some of the happiest moments of his life because during them he had imagined himself to be an ordinary husband and father.

He went briskly out into the corridor, where Leonor was waiting for him.

“She sleeps, Highness?”

“I have commanded her to rest.”

“Your Highness is pleased, I see. Then come to the nursery and see the little one’s brother.”

Leonor walked with him to the nursery, where a beautiful boy of not quite three was sprawling on cushions, Moorish fashion, on the floor playing with colored balls. His nurse bowed and retired when she saw the Prince.

“Papa!” cried the boy and rising and running to Philip, he clasped him about the knees. Philip stood still until the door closed on the nurse; then he picked up the boy.

“And how is my son Garcia today?”

The boy put his hands on Philip’s lips and Philip wanted to hold him against him and kiss the smooth brown cheek. He glanced at Leonor before gratifying this wish.

“Hello, Papa,” said the boy. “Garcia is well.”

“And pleased to see me, eh?”

The boy smiled, while his chubby hand went to the jewel at Philip’s throat.

“You like that, eh, my little one?”

The boy nodded and tried to pull it off.

“Methinks you are more pleased with that jewel than with your Papa.”

“Nay, nay,” said Leonor. “He loves best to see his Papa. Do you not, Garcia?”

The boy had charming ways and his answer was to release the jewel and to put his arms about his father’s neck and make a soft, gurgling noise which was meant to express affection.

“You must show your Papa your beautiful toys, Garcia, my precious one,” said Leonor.

The boy wriggled and Philip set him down. Philip watched him as he ran about, noting his sturdy limbs, the look of health, the eyes which were neither blue nor brown, but a mixture of Philip’s blue ones and Isabel’s black ones. How he loved this child! How happy he would be if he might throw himself onto the floor and become absorbed in the things which delighted the boy!

“He is growing clever,” said Leonor. She went to a table and took up a book. “Here, Garcia. Now let us show Papa how we can read the little words. What is this now?”

The boy dimpled with great charm. “El niño,” he said, and pointed to himself.

“So you are the little one, you are the little baby?” asked Philip.

“Yes, Papa. Garcia is el niño now. But I will tell you something. May I, Leonor? It is a secret.”

“You may tell Papa, I am sure,” said Leonor.

“I am to have a brother or a sister. Then I shall not be the little one. Then I shall be the big one.”

Then Philip, aware of an intense emotion, took the jewel from his throat and gave it to the boy.

“Pretty!” he said, and he laughed with delight.

But Leonor took it from him as he would have put it into his mouth. She clucked her tongue and looked from Philip to Garcia with her own peculiar brand of indulgence.

“To give a baby such a thing! Why, he might swallow it. It is to look at, precious one, but not to eat. Leonor will put it away, and when you are a big one instead of a little one, you will remember that your father gave it to you, and you will wish to keep it forever.”

The child was looking at his father now. Philip stooped to pick him up. He held him against him in such a way that neither Leonor nor the child should see his emotion.

Philip could never shirk a duty. After an hour spent in that nursery with Garcia he must return to the palace and visit his legitimate son, the child of his brief union with Maria Manoela. These visits were becoming, alas!, more of a duty than a pleasure.

He went to the apartments that were occupied by the little Prince.

Carlos was nearly two years older than Garcia, and Philip never looked at Carlos without wishing that it was Garcia who was his eldest son, Garcia whose place was here at the palace.

They were prepared for him in the royal nursery when he arrived. Perhaps they knew that he had just left the house of Isabel Osorio and that he had spent an hour with her son.

As Philip entered the apartment he heard Carlos’s screaming. So they had warned him that his father was approaching; they had tried to comb his wild hair, to tidy his garments, to impress upon the boy the need to be on his best behavior.

Philip stood coldly surveying the scene. The two nurses were perturbed, desperately trying to quiet Carlos; the heralds and the courtiers were uncomfortable; Carlos had turned to peer over his shoulder and scowl at his father.

Philip said: “Leave me with my son.”

“No!” cried Carlos. “Do not go.”

He ran after them, but they had left quickly shutting the door after them. Carlos went to the door, but he was not big enough to open it, so he pounded on it with his fists, working himself into a rage.

“Come here, Carlos,” said Philip.

The boy ignored his father and continued to kick the door.

Philip strode across the room, and picking up Carlos, brought him to the chair, where he sat holding the boy.

Carlos was now silent. He glared at his father with his wild black eyes.

“Why do you behave thus?” demanded Philip.

Carlos did not answer.

“Is it becoming for a prince to treat his father thus?”

Carlos’s lower lip stuck out angrily. Philip looked at the big head that seemed enormous on the poor, stunted body; he noticed how the hair grew low on his forehead, almost reaching the eyebrows, the slight hump on the back, the left leg which was not quite as long as the right, the weak, full lips, the pallor of the skin; and all the time he was comparing Carlos with the boy whom he had just left. Why had God given him one handsome and intelligent son, and another—the heir to the throne—like Carlos? How had he and Maria Manoela produced a child like this one? He thought suddenly of the apartments of Juana with the food strewn about the room; he recalled the wild laughter which incongruously rose above the music and made the mad scene more unforgettably horrible. Whenever he looked at this boy he was reminded of Juana—his grandmother and Maria Manoela’s.

“Carlos,” he said severely, “you are growing up now.”

Carlos continued to scowl at him.

“One day you will be a king. Kings do not kick and scream.”

“Then they are silly,” muttered Carlos.

“Why do you say that, Carlos?”

“Because when this little one kicks he gets what he kicks and screams for.”

“Then you shall do so no longer.”

Carlos’s scowl became almost a smile. If he was not clever, he was cunning. Philip thought of Dr Siliceo, who had always been so ready to please him. There would be others as eager to please this little Prince.

“Kings have their duties,” said Philip. “They must set an example to the people. If they behave badly their subjects will not love them.”

Carlos was considering this, and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he did not care that people should love him; he only cared that they should give him what he wanted.

“Your grandfather,” said Philip, “is a great Emperor.”

“This little one shall be a great Emperor,” said Carlos.

“You will not if you do not behave in a manner such as will please the people. You will have to do your duty and learn your lessons. How are you getting on with your reading?”

“Don’t like it.”

“Have you not learned your letters yet?”

“Don’t like,” said Carlos with finality.

“But you must try to like them.”

Carlos’s scowl-smile deepened. “Won’t do,” he said; and he laughed suddenly, doubtless recalling his latest tantrum when his nurses had tried to enforce his father’s wishes.

“Do you not want to be a learned man when you grow up?”

Carlos considered this in his sly, secret way. He was thinking, Philip knew, that he could very well get what he wanted in his present state of ignorance. Kicking, screaming himself into a passion so that his attendants and nurses feared for his health, was, he was cunning enough to know, more effective in getting him what he wanted than anything he could learn from books.

“If you would be quieter, more gentle, do as you are told and learn your lessons, I should be able to love you,” said Philip gently.

Carlos’s indifference to his father’s regard was in his answer: “His Aunt Juana loves him.”

Juana! That name again. The reminder was at times more alarming than at others.

Philip put the boy down and, going to the door, asked the guard who stood outside to bring the Princess Juana to him.

Carlos had limped to the door, hoping to make his escape, but Philip held him firmly by the shoulder. Carlos looked at his father’s hand as he contemplated digging his teeth into it; but he was not insensible to his father’s power and the fear he inspired in others. Carlos, for all his wildness, was not a coward, but at the same time he was aware that a boy of four cannot easily pit himself against a man. So he contented himself with scowling, and allowed himself to be brought back to the chair.

“Why do you want to run away, my son?”

Carlos wriggled, but would not answer.

“Are you not pleased that your father should visit you?”

Carlos continued to stare at the hands which held him, and kept his face turned away from his father’s.

At that moment Philip’s young sister Juana entered. She was a quiet girl, with a serious expression, a little afraid now, as she always had been, of her brother. She came to him and knelt.

“Juana … Juana …” cried Carlos.

Philip told her to rise, and she stood up, looking timidly at him.

“You are with the boy more than anyone,” said Philip. “Yes, your Highness.”

“Juana … Juana …” The boy was fighting free of his father’s grasp, and Philip let him go. Carlos ran to his aunt, and, half laughing, half crying, he flung his arms about her knees.

“Make him stop that,” said Philip.

“Carlos, dearest baby, be silent. You must not act thus before your father. Little one … little one … all is well.”

Carlos kept his face hidden against her skirt. “He hurt the little one, Juana. He hurt el niño. He would not let Juana’s little one go with the others. He kept him here.”

“Hush. Hush. You must not cry before your father.”

“Little one will cry. He will stamp and cry.”

Little one! El niño. It was too reminiscent. Why had he punished himself by coming direct from one to the other? If he had waited, the contrast would have seemed less vivid.

“Enough! Enough!” he said.

Juana stood up, for she had knelt to comfort the boy. Philip looked at her coldly.

“You are not treating the boy as he should be treated.”

Carlos’s expression was cunning now. He said: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

“Your Highness,” stammered Juana. “He is young yet …”

“I know it. He has told us. El niño! This pampering must be stopped. What of his lessons? I understand he cannot read his letters yet.”

“Your Highness …” Juana’s protective love for the child overcame her fear of her brother. “He is so young …”

Philip’s mouth was tight. “Others read before they are his age. He must pay more attention to his books. He must learn to read at once. How otherwise can he learn anything?” Philip softened. “It is not fair to blame you, Juana. He must have tutors.”

“He will not,” muttered Carlos.

“Do not touch him!” commanded Philip. “Do not soothe him. There has been too much soothing.”

Juana was pale. She was only a child herself. She had no mother; the boy had no mother; there was a bond between them. El niño, she had called him. Juana’s el niño; and it was from her he had learned his first words. It was to her he came when he wished to be soothed or petted, and she loved him as though she were the mother who had died giving birth to him. She was afraid now, for she was beginning to be almost as much afraid of wild Carlos as of calm Philip.

“He needs discipline,” said Philip.

“Little one won’t have it.”

“When you speak of yourself, please say ‘I.’ You are too old for childish talk.”

Carlos clutched Juana’s skirts and scowled at his father, and Philip felt suddenly that he must end this scene because he could bear no more. He had suffered too much tragedy. Was it not enough that he had seen Maria Manoela lying on her deathbed? Must he also have to look on this monstrous child with the heavy head, the low brow, the atavistic eyes?

“Tutors shall be appointed,” he said, “and in the meantime, Juana, I command you, do not pander to his whims. Treat him sternly. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to forbid you to see him.”

He strode past them. Juana sank to her knees.

As Philip left the apartment, he heard Carlos cry: “Juana loves him. Juana loves el niño.”

When Philip left his son’s apartment it was to discover that the Duke of Alba had arrived at the palace. The Duke had just come to Spain from Flanders and brought dispatches from the Emperor.

The dispatches, said Alba, were of the utmost secrecy, and the Emperor had entrusted them in no other hands but his. Moreover, his instructions were to hand them to no one but Philip.